Just Jane (15 page)

Jane squirmed in indecision. “This all sounds so distasteful, I—”

“Jane—” Clarissa leaned forward, suddenly earnest. “Use your charms for Arthur's sake. Don't you remember his kindness to you when you came here a frightened orphan? Think about it. You might just save his life.”

After long hesitation, Jane was ready to take a firm stand.
“Aunt Clarissa, I will do all I reasonably can to persuade Richard to help us with Uncle Arthur's situation. But deliberately deceiving him is going too far. And since you mentioned it—whatever you and Uncle Robert may believe, I do
not
have an ‘arrangement' with Brandon.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon! Perhaps you have other plans that you haven't bothered to tell us about!”

“Only hopes and dreams, not plans exactly.”

“What hopes and dreams?” Clarissa's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Jane, are you meeting someone secretly? All those mysterious walks you're forever taking—where do you go?”

“Nowhere in particular. Just around.” Jane could feel herself start to blush as her mind flashed back to the image of Simon turning to greet her last fall in Arthur's study.

“Meeting a secret lover, I shouldn't wonder!” Clarissa kept pressing. “I warn you, if Robert hears of such disreputable behavior, he'll—”

“Excuse me.” Jane was on her feet. “I suddenly feel like going for another one of those ‘mysterious' walks. Perhaps you'd like to follow me, Aunt Clarissa. Who knows, you might see something delightfully wicked!”

She paused long enough to enjoy the astonishment on Clarissa's face, then strode out the door and downstairs to the street.

 

This time Jane used her walk as a way of working off her seething resentment of Clarissa's accusation. How dare she, when
she's
the one who's had a secret lover! Naturally, it was flattering to be asked to assume an “important responsibility.” But to deceive a decent, unsuspecting young man? Her innate honesty would make that quite impossible. And yet—

Use your charms for Arthur's sake . . . It's the only way . . . Remember his kindness . . . You might just save his life. . .

Jane felt trapped. She could not refuse to do anything for Uncle Arthur, whom she held in wannest affection. But how should she go about using her so-called charms on Richard and still be able to live with herself?

It would be the strangest challenge she had ever encountered.

For hours a soft rain had drifted down from a black sky, but around midnight it ceased, and soon the scattering clouds only occasionally obscured a last-quarter moon. Even so, the dense forest at Merritt's Camp, on the North Carolina coast, would keep up a steady
drip-drip
all night long.

Stocky, shaggy-haired Billy Evans moved with extreme caution as he made his way up the soggy path that led from the river landing to the camp in the woods. His destination was the tent occupied by his boss—he who was known only as The Schoolmaster, but whose fame was widespread in these parts. At last, pausing in front of a small tent whose canvas walls glowed dimly from the light of a lantern inside, he spoke in a low tone.

“Sir? It's Billy here.”

“Come in, Billy,” was the muffled reply.

The young man entered to find Simon sitting on his straw pallet, working on his journals. “Nothing stirring out there, sir. Mr. Merritt's on watch.”

“All right.” Simon nodded toward a low stool, the only thing resembling furniture in the tiny chamber. “Care to sit a spell?”

Billy sat down. “Sir, why don't they come? The Spanish are usually right on time. But we've waited two weeks, and still no sign of'em.”

“It's a matter of luck,” Simon explained. “One glimpse of a British warship in the area, and they'll turn and run. And if they think the British have discovered the landing site, they won't come back. We'll wait a few more days, then we'll give it up and leave.”

“It's hard to sit around and wait. Mr. Merritt's gettin' pretty impatient. He says the Spaniards can't be trusted, anyway.”

“Mr. Merritt doesn't trust anybody. Particularly me.”

“Because you're a Northerner, sir?”

“That's part of it. But mainly because I refuse to carry a gun.”

“Well now, beggin' your pardon, sir, but there he's got a point. War's a dangerous business, and I never heard of no soldier going without a gun.”

“Well, since I don't carry one, I must not be a soldier. Soldiers kill their enemies, but I'm not interested in killing anybody. I smuggle weapons only because there's no choice, but I don't have to use them.”

“I know you've told me that, sir, but it don't make no sense to me. Seems like when you work for one side against the other, that makes you a soldier, plain and simple.”

“Not necessarily. I'd work for
both
sides if I could, to keep all those wretched soldiers alive until their betters come to their senses.”

“Come to their senses?” Billy was puzzled. “And do what, sir?”

“Sit down and work out their differences, which is what they should have done in the first place.”

Billy shook his head. “You mean just stop the fightin', with no winner? That don't make no sense to me, neither. Fact is, lots o' things you say don't make sense. Like you plannin' to go back to Charlestown after we're done here. Why would you go back there now, knowin' the British have got it?”

“For personal reasons, I would.”

“Hah! Lady reasons, I reckon. She must be mighty special.”

This brought a chuckle from Simon. “Right you are, Billy. Now there's something we
can
agree on.”

Just then their conversation was interrupted by another member of the camp calling urgently from outside. “Merritt's got a ship in sight, sir.”

The two men in the tent were on their feet instantly, Simon taking up the lantern. “This could be it. Let's go.”

 

A sluggish stream emerged from the woods at the river landing to meander across fifty yards of open beach and empty into the ocean. A miniature dock made of logs extended a few feet out into the slow-moving current. A skiff was tied there, and two lanterns hanging on a post created a circular oasis of yellow light. This was the domain of the tall, thin, hawkeyed George Merritt. When Simon and Billy arrived, Merritt and two of his men were staring intently out over the ocean. Beyond the frothy white line of a gentle surf, the dark form of a ship could be dimly seen, riding at anchor two hundred yards offshore.

“It's a two-master,” Merritt reported to Simon. “Don't look like one o' Roca's, unless the Spaniards are tryin' to get tricky. I got a couple o' men down there keepin' an eye on it.”

Simon lifted the cover of his lantern and blew out the flame, then addressed one of Merritt's men. “Put out your lanterns.”

“Hey!” Merritt barked. “These men take orders from me, not you.”

“All right, George,” Simon replied patiently. “Tell them to put out those lanterns immediately.”

A nod from Merritt was enough, and the lanterns were doused. Merritt then turned to Simon with a scornful smile. “What's the matter, Mr. Schoolmaster? You gettin' nervous?”

“What's the matter with
you
, George? You think it's smart to put up welcoming lights when you have no idea who's out there?”

“My guess is, it's a Dutchman. They put in here now and then.”

“I see. And you're willing to risk your men's lives on a guess?”

Merritt's small eyes narrowed. “Listen, I been smugglin' here since long before you ever knew the meaning of the word. And I'm tellin' you, no ship ever put in here that didn't have friendly business with me.”

“Maybe one has tonight,” Simon snapped, and turned to Billy. “We need to get a closer look. You come with me, Billy. Everyone else, stay here.”

“Wait a minute.” Merritt grasped Simon roughly by the arm. “This is my land, damn it.
I'll
go get a closer look.
You
stay here.”

Simon gave in with a weary shrug. “All right, have it your way. But get your men back up here under cover. They're too exposed out there.”

Ignoring this, Merritt started for the beach, while the others stayed behind, Simon pacing restlessly as he waited. Soon a heavy cloud that had been obscuring the moon drifted off, and in the sudden rise of pale moonlight, Billy's sharp eyes caught something.

“Look there, sir. A longboat from the ship, heading for shore.”

Simon stopped, squinting into the mist that hung over the ocean. “I don't like this,” he muttered. “I don't like it at all.” A few seconds later he exploded in fury. “Good God, the damn fools!”

One of Merritt's men on the beach had lit a lantern and was swinging it in an arc, its yellow glare reaching out just far enough to pick up the longboat, which was fast coming onshore.

Simon cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “George, tell them to put out that lant—”

His words were cut off by the percussive report of a musket. The lantern on the beach spun crazily and disappeared into the water. Suddenly, the still night air was alive with gunfire, splashing, running feet, and harsh cries of alarm and rage. The heavy bark of muskets was answered by the sharper crack of rifles.

George Merritt came racing back. “Redcoats!” he yelled. “Run for it!” Halfway back to the forest cover, he stopped, drew his pistol, and turned to face the threat. At that instant he was struck with a force that shook his tall, gangly frame. He crumpled in the sand without a sound.

Simon ran for the fallen man. Merritt lay still, facedown, his right arm flung out, the hand still gripping his unused pistol. Kneeling beside him, Simon reached down to turn him over and felt warm, sticky blood.

From behind him came Billy's frantic shout, “Sir, look out!”

Simon glanced up just in time to see a British soldier running straight at him, bayonet raised to strike. One thought came to Simon's mind:
This man shot Merritt, and now he means to finish us both off with his bayonet
. No more time for thinking—his survival instinct took over. Wrenching the pistol from Merritt's hand, Simon fired just as the bayonet flashed in its downward thrust. The Redcoat grunted softly and pitched forward, falling across George Merritt's lifeless body. Simon dropped the pistol, and with his right hand clawed at what felt like a white-hot iron searing his left arm. Still on his knees, two bodies sprawled in the sand before him, he rocked back and forth in pain.

Then Billy's hand was on his shoulder, the young man's familiar voice close to his ear. “You hurt bad, sir? Can you stand up? If you can get to the landing, we'll take the skiff and . . .”

Billy's voice faded. The world began to spin crazily, and a great roar filled Simon's ears. Then silence, and everything went black.

 

Simon awoke to morning sunlight filtering through dense tree branches overhead. He was lying on his back, the weathered sides of a skiff limiting his vision on both sides. The small craft bumped gently against a bank. Dull pain throbbed in his left arm. Almost afraid to move, he groped carefully with his free hand and felt a thick bandage.

The skiff rocked slightly, and Billy's face appeared above him. “Glad to see you awake, sir. How you feelin'?”

“Terrible,” Simon replied. “Where are we?”

“A mile or so up the river and into a side creek. I reckon we'll be safe here for now. And don't worry about your wound, it didn't go deep. I got the bleeding stopped and a bandage on it. You'll be all right.”

Simon frowned, trying to remember, then winced as memory came rushing back in jagged, nightmarish images. A man lying wounded, perhaps mortally, in the sand before him. Another, his face contorted in desperate determination, looming over him with an upraised bayonet. The metallic glint of murderous steel. The blinding flash of a pistol shot. Then what?

“We was mighty lucky, sir, that's for sure,” Billy continued. “The Redcoats all went chasing after Merritt's men down the beach, giving me a chance to get you over to the skiff. What happened after that, I don't know, but the camp's taken, that's sure, and Merritt's done for. So's the Redcoat who came at you with the bayonet.”

“Oh, God . . . ,” Simon groaned.

Billy went on in his chatty way. “For a minute there, I thought you were done for, too, sir. That was a real close one. But, Lordy, what a shot you took! For somebody who don't carry a weapon, you were mighty handy with that one. You're a soldier right enough, and a dang good one.” Getting no response, Billy glanced over and saw that Simon was staring into space. “Sir? You all right?”

Simon went on staring. “I shot a man,” he said softly. “Shot a man I'd never even seen, possibly killed him. How can I live with that?”

“There you go, sir, makin' no sense again. Remember, he was comin' right for you, so it was either you or him. And like I said, it was one fine shot you took. My, my, just think how proud your lady friend in Charlestown will be when you tell her about it.”

“She would
not
be proud,” Simon replied darkly. “She'd be horrified. I'll tell her many things, but I will never tell her about that. Never.”

“What d'ya mean, sir? That villain got just what he deserved.”

“No, Billy, you're wrong. He was no villain. He was some mother's son, just like you and me. Sent across the sea to fight in a war he probably liked no more than you or I do.”

Billy sighed and gave up. “It's no use arguin' with you, sir. And I reckon you'll never be a soldier, after all. But I'll say this—you're one fine fellow. It's a privilege to work for you.”

Simon managed a weak smile. “Thanks, Billy. And the same to you.”